Operation Beta Reader
by Black Phantom2
Summary: What does the Tracy family think of fan fiction? Let’s go to Tracy Island and find out.


Here's the deal: I don't own. You don't sue.

Flame as much as you want but keep in mind that your words say more about you than about the story. I'll repeat my warning about the rating. It's R-rated for language. If this doesn't sound good to you then protect your feelings and stop reading now!

**Operation Beta Reader's Revenge.**

"'Help us, help, for godssake, help us?' That's not much to go on, John," said Jeff.

In the corner near the balcony doors Virgil kept on tickling the ivories of the white baby grand piano, although he did lower the volume in which he was playing.

"They're probably just sending," said Scott turning away from the table where he and Brains sat playing chess. "They don't know much about radios and don't realise they have to throw a switch to receive an answer to their call."

"That's what I first thought too," said John. "But when I tried to locate their position I found..." He ran a hand through his hair and said, "I found that it's not a real place they're sending from."

"Not a real place? What do you mean by that, John?" asked Jeff.

"Well," said John hesitatingly. "It comes from all over the world. And it looks like it's computer-generated, Dad."

"Computer-generated? You mean an automatic distress call?" asked Scott.

"No," said John. "No, it's the Net itself that sends it. It are certain Websites that are asking for our help."

"The Net? Websites? You're mad," burst out Scott.

"No," said John again. "I'm not mad. Nor am I suicidal, married, dead, a father, suffering from a deadly disease and no offence, Scott, I love you dearly as a brother, but I can do without sucking your cock or having you fuck me in my ass."

Apart from a crashing dissonant emanating from the piano, the silence in the lounge in the Tracy villa was deafening. Jeff just sat behind his desk opening and closing his mouth as if he was a fish on dry land.

"Fucking hell," breathed Scott.

"It's not _that_ bad," whispered Virgil.

"Of course! That's it! That I did not think of that before," said Brains without any stuttering.

"And you never guess who you got a sixth son with, Dad," said John. The veins swelling in Jeff's neck was his only answer. "And we weep a lot," added John.

"That's it! We've got to do something, Dad," said Scott. "We Tracy guys never weep, you know that!"

"I know," said Jeff.

"Shall I get Gordon and Alan?" offered Scott getting up.

"Knock first," said John.

"What? Them too?" asked Virgil.

"Is there no one that you lot does not screw?" asked Brains taking of his glasses and cleaning them.

"Some of us more often than the others," said John. "But it can be that they're ill, dead or just not on the island. Anyway, let's us thank our lucky stars there are no fanfic writers from the Middle East."

"Oh my God!" moaned Scott.

"Yeah!" said Virgil. "Goats have strong sphincters."

Brains dropped his glasses.

"Or so I'm told," added the second son.

"Boys," croaked Jeff.

"Guys!" said Scott.

"Boys," croaked Jeff again.

"Guys! We're adults, for Pete's sake," insisted Scott.

"Boys," croaked Jeff for the third time. "We are a secret organisation, right?"

"Right!" The three young men in the lounge and the one young man in the space station agreed.

"So, I am not happy with those fanfiction writers publishing all our secrets on the Net, right?"

"Right!"

"Although some stories _are_ good, right?"

"Right!"

"And we know they're not professional writers, right?"

"Right!"

"And we know that some of them are not English-born speakers, right?"

"Right!"

"And some of them are young, right?"

"Right!"

"I don't mind that some of my sons find satisfaction in screwing each other, right?"

"Right!"

"But I will not have this family known to the world as one that is willing to screw anything with a hole in it, right?"

"Right!"

"Or as a group of socially and mentally challenged ones, right?"

"Right!"

"We are here to rescue people, not to sit in hospitals or around our deathbeds all the time, right?"

"Right!"

"However, if we have to be like that, we want to be so in correctly spelled English, right?"

"Right!"

"Brains!"

"Y-yes, Mr T-t-tracy?"

"Reprogram Braman."

"Y-yes, Mr T-t-tracy."

"Every time someone publishes a movie based story, he must demand they place it in a separate section!"

"Y-yes, Mr T-t-tracy."

"I don't mind movie based stories but I don't want those among the serial based ones."

"Y-yes, Mr T-t-tracy."

"Every time if they portray us out of character, he must sent the author a friendly e-mail telling him or her so!"

"Y-yes, Mr T-t-tracy."

"No more 'I-suck-at-grammar-but-who-cares?' Let him complain to the Website owner!"

"Y-yes, Mr T-t-tracy."

"No more 'I'm-not-English-so-bear-with-me!' Let him find them a good beta reader!"

"Y-yes, Mr T-t-tracy."

"One who speaks the language well, knows about writing and knows us!"

"Y-yes, Mr T-t-tracy."

"No more 'You-said-it-was-R-rated-I-don't-like-R-rated-but-I-read-it-anyway-and-now-I'm-upset.' Let him send them a polite e-mail giving them a piece of our mind."

"Y-yes, Mr T-t-tracy."

"No more 'he just sprained an ankle and he went into cardiac arrest!' If the writers don't know a thing about medical matters let him tell them to write about things they do know about."

"Y-yes, Mr T-t-tracy."

"Let's see, what else?"

"Story stealing?" suggested Scott.

"Oh yeah, story stealing. First a friendly e-mail, Brains, telling them they used somebody else's story."

"Y-yes, Mr T-t-tracy."

"If they don't respond or in an insulting manner, sent them a computer virus."

"Y-yes, Mr T-t-tracy."

"One that not only explodes their hard disk, but defrosts their freezer, floods their home and gives them an incurable dose of genital herpes."

"Y-yes, Mr T-t-tracy."

"Guys!"

"Boys!" said Scott and then he hid his head in his hands in total confusion.

"Operation Beta Reader's Revenge is go!"

"What can we do in the meantime, father?" asked Virgil.

"Get a screw, son," said Jeff. "Get a screw."


End file.
